


Old World is a New World

by Theoroark



Series: Feeling Good [10]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Interior Decorating, Jewish Sombra, Jewish Widowmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theoroark/pseuds/Theoroark
Summary: Day Four:LightSombra and Widowmaker arriving home, and trying to make a home.Part of FemslashFest 2017.





	Old World is a New World

"This is depressing," Sombra announced. 

 

Widow dropped the roller from the wall so she could level the full heat of her scorn at her girlfriend. "If you aren't going to help, you don't get to complain."

 

"I still have to look at these things," Sombra said, gesturing to the burgundy paint that was slowly and painstakingly being spread through the library of Chateau Guillard. She had found a comfy armchair and Widow looked adorable– a rare state for her– in her overalls and old t shirt. But still. "I'm getting seasonal affective disorder just being in here."

 

"It's July."

 

"That's how depressing they are."

 

"I like them," Widow said. "And it's not like you'll be spending a lot of time in here. You hate physical books. You called _Fahrenheit 451_ luddite drivel." 

 

"They take up too much space and they're harder to steal." Widow rolled her eyes and put the roller back to the wall, and Sombra pushed herself out of her chair to find a less annoyed form of entertainment. 

 

She brushed past the dusty shelves, trailing her fingers along them. Sombra was already somewhat familiar with the library. The two of them had reclaimed the house in a staggered process. Sombra had gone in first, lacing firewalls in the plaster walls and securing every appliance more complex than a calculator. Then Widow followed, with paint swatches, a copy of "Vogue Home", and the odd venom mine. 

 

So Sombra knew the water stained carpet and the chipped crown molding fairly well. But she had not paid as much attention to the furnishings and amenities in the rooms. She might as well acquaint herself here, before Widow's somber tide pushed her out. 

 

She stopped at one of the shelves and examined the spines. " _Almanac of the South Indies, 1897_ ," she read. "Why in God's name do you have this?"

 

"It's an antique," Widow said. "Don't touch it."

 

"Are any of the books here actually for reading?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Which ones are those?"

 

Widow looked over her shoulder and scanned the room. "...They're around," she said after a moment, and then turned back to her painting. 

 

"Rich people," Sombra muttered. She moved down the shelves slowly. _Natural Historical Observations of Ethiopia_. A copy of the Talmud that appeared to be written on vellum. A first edition printing of The Hunger Games. 

 

Around the third shelf, the bindings switched from carefully preserved leathers and hardcovers to more casual paperbacks and plastic jackets frayed and ripped from use. Sombra slowed and began to read more carefully. There were some popular histories, some Crisis memoirs. Some pulpy mystery novels whose pages seemed especially worn. On the lower shelves, there were picture books and children's novels. Sombra spotted _Charlotte's Web_ among them and smiled. 

 

There was a break in the spines and Sombra stopped. The previous bookends had been heavy brass fleur de lises, stalwart reminders that this was the house of the French and the rich. Here, though, the books were separated by a picture of Amélie and Gerárd. Sombra looked behind her. Widow was focused on her painting. She reached up and took the frame off the shelf. 

 

Amélie was human colored here. The heart Sombra had been unable to fully resuscitate beat normally. She wore a gown and a veil that should have been boring in their orthodoxy, but shone because Amélie shone. She smiled timidly at the camera– had Widow ever been timid, in the entire time Sombra had known her– and leaned into her husband. He looked at her, not the photographer, with closed eyes and a smile that seemed to indicate he did not understand how he had gotten this lucky. Sombra noted his tiny mustache. She did not quite understand either. 

 

She looked at the place the picture had been. There was dust on the shelf below it, she realized. And dust on top of the books around it, but none on the frame. This had not been here when the house had been abandoned. Widow had placed it here after they arrived. Sombra looked back down at the picture, at Amélie's cream-colored hands in Gerárd's grasp. 

 

"Sombra." She turned and Widow was standing there, watching her. She was not surprised, she realized. She had expected to be caught. 

 

That did not mean she had any idea what to do now. 

 

"It's a nice picture," she said. She turned the frame around and Widow's eyes flicked down to the photograph, and then back up to Sombra's face. "From your wedding?"

 

"No, from his bris."

 

"Funny." She examined the backdrop of the photo. "You know, that's a good point. The whole 'Lacroix' thing. Your bubbeh must have loved that."

 

"She survived. It's not important."

 

"That's good. It's matrilineal anyway," Sombra said, purposefully misinterpreting what Widow was dismissing. "So what's the deal with that mustache?"

 

"Sombra."

 

"Is it a French thing? Do you have a beret kink too?"

 

"Enough."

 

"No, actually, it's not enough. Not really."

 

Widow opened her mouth, then shut it. She turned back to the wall and dipped the roller in the tray of paint. Sombra set the photograph back on the shelf and pulled out one of the mysteries and settled back in her arm chair. She mechanically turned the pages.

 

On the tenth page that she had turned to but not read, she heard Widow make a choking little gasp. She jumped up only to freeze in place. 

 

Widow was crying. 

 

She stared at her. Widow sniffled and wiped at her eyes angrily. She left a streak of red paint across her cheek that looked like a bloody cut. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she said. 

 

"Uh. Yeah." Sombra took a couple tentative steps towards. "I know this is your first time in like, a decade, but this is called crying. It's a perfectly normal and utterly pointless physical manifestation of emotion."

 

Widow laughed a little at that, and Sombra knelt down next to her. "Hey." Widow took a deep breath and Sombra put her hand on her back. "It's gonna be okay."

 

"I thought I was doing the right thing," Widow said. "I don't get it."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean it– it's really not important, Sombra." She looked up at her with wide, gold eyes. "It doesn't have anything to do with us, now. I love you. I'm glad I'm with you. I don't want to drag that down with something that's in the past."

 

"Okay," Sombra said. "It's not important. Then why did you keep the picture?"

 

"I want to remember," Widow said. "But you don't have to take that on."

 

Sombra let out a long breath. "That's not how this works, Widow."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean, if it's important to you, it's important to me." Sombra traced the edge of the glass, along the thin metal frame. "I know we're kind getting our footing back here. And I know this can't be easy for you. But I want to know what's going on. Help if I can."

 

"I don't think you can help with this," Widow said quietly. Sombra nodded. 

 

"Okay then. But just... I want to be there with you. We're a good team. I want us to stay that way."

 

Widow rubbed at her face again. The paint was drying now, and some of it flaked off her skin. "You protected me, getting me out of Talon, to Ziegler, back here. You did that for me, without any guarantee that you would be compensated. I want to protect you, too." 

 

Sombra frowned for a moment, then laughed. "Widow you think– you were–" Widow bit her lip and looked down, and Sombra sobered up quickly. "I'm sorry. I do appreciate it. But listen. I pick my friends well. I did all that shit with Talon because I knew I'd get my money's worth." Widow laughed a little at that, and Sombra smiled. "And you're right, I did do a lot of work there. I put in a lot of work to help you grieve. So you should know I'm not going to leave you for it now."

 

"Alright," Widow said softly. She stood up and offered Sombra her hand, and Sombra took it. Widow pulled her up and rested her arms on her shoulders. Sombra ran her thumb over the slash of red left on her cheek. 

 

"What color would you like our bedroom to be?" Widow asked. Sombra looked up, and blinked when she saw that Widow was serious. 

 

"What about a lavender?" she asked after a moment. 

 

"Lavender," Widow repeated, and Sombra ducked her head down. 

 

"I don't know. It's light. And we both like purple, right?"

 

"We do," Widow said. She tilted Sombra's chin up and kissed her slowly. 

 

"It will look great," she said, and lead Sombra out of the library and to their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder to not steal ebooks and to support your local libraries.
> 
> I'm @tacticalgrandma if you want to talk to me there!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and any comments/kudos would mean the world to me <3


End file.
